


searching for the exit from the ground

by morganya



Category: Hold Me Down - Gin Blossoms (Song)
Genre: Alcoholism, M/M, Peer Pressure, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 12:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18691702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/morganya
Summary: The morning after, and the night before.





	searching for the exit from the ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Reishiin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reishiin/gifts).



The first thing he noticed was that his eyes were stuck shut. When he'd forced through the layers of sleep, the light coming in the window skewered through his retina and left him squeezing his eyes tight shut again.

Everything felt too heavy; the sheets, the pillow pressing into his jaw, his skin. His entire side felt raw and it hurt to move, though the air in the room was hot and cloying. The room smelled of feet and spilled beer. His head was pounding.

He forced himself up onto his hands and knees, preparing to swing off the bed, clenching his mouth tight against the bile threatening to rise up through his throat. The lump in the bed next to him moved. He blinked at it, wondering just exactly when that had appeared.

The lump moved again and shifted the sheets; there was a man lying there. The man looked familiar but he couldn't remember a name. He couldn't remember if they'd done anything besides pass out together.

He dropped his throbbing head to the sheets and closed his eyes, thinking, _Here's to another day in paradise._

*****

When someone pressed a sweating beer can into his hand, he said, "No, thanks," and tried to hand it back, but whoever it was had already moved on and the music must have swallowed anything he was trying to say. He wrapped his fingers around the can. It was still unopened.

It was a party that someone from work had organized, one that he'd tried to get out of. He'd pleaded being behind at work, location being out of his way, other things to do. They told him _be a team player_ and _cohesive group_ and _see you there_ and he'd shown up.

It would have been one thing if they had been at a hotel, or some trendy nightclub where he could walk around the room twice before making a quick Irish goodbye, but instead they were at somebody's partner's house and the layout was unfamiliar. He couldn't seem to find a quiet place.

He thought he could find an empty counter space and set the can down somewhere, but when he tried to squeeze into a spot in the kitchen, the woman next to him paused from making out with Frank from Accounting and said, "Hey, what's up? Something wrong with the beer? You haven't even opened that one."

"Nothing's wrong with it," he said, and tried to move away. Frank from Accounting looked up and said, "So why are you just carrying it around? Go and have a drink, it won't kill you to loosen up."

"I'm good, actually," he said, but Frank from Accounting didn't seem to hear him. He and the woman both looked expectantly at him for what seemed an agonizingly long time.

He thought, _Well, can't fight City Hall,_ hooked a fingernail under the pop top and heard the carbonation hiss inside the can.

They were still looking at him. He brought the can to his lips; the smell of yeast and hops curled around his nose. He could already feel his mouth watering.

For a brief second he thought he could take a sip and that would be it, but the beer was cold and sharp at first and then went warm and soothing as it went down his throat and into his stomach. He found himself gulping.

He lowered the empty can and put it down. Frank from Accounting and the woman had resumed making out. He went to try to find a quiet spot; he was already feeling loose from his one beer, like it had smoothed out everything inside him, and he wanted to hang onto that, try to be content without pushing the feeling further.

Then someone said, "Oh, you want a refill?" and before he knew it he had another beer in his hand. He stared at it.

"The universe wants me to get drunk," he said, but no one seemed to hear him.

*****

The man in his bed was named Jamal, unless someone else had gone and left their wallet and pants on his floor. There didn't seem to be any evidence that they'd screwed around – no empty condom packets, no suspicious stains – but that wasn't a guarantee. He might have to take a short leisurely walk to the clinic later, just to be on the safe side.

He had scrapes and cuts and bruises all along his side, a massive road rash colored in red and purple and blue and yellow, and he had only the faintest idea of how it could have gotten there. The bruises throbbed as he struggled into a pair of pants and pulled a t-shirt over his head. His head was still aching and his tongue was stuck to the top of his mouth.

He went to brush his teeth. His hands were unsteady as he squeezed the toothpaste onto the brush. He kept any speculation as to why they were unsteady just below conscious thought and stuck the brush into his mouth.

Mint foam filled his mouth and pooled in the corners of his lips. In the old days they'd take a mad dog, frothing at the mouth and snarling, and put it down with a shotgun blast. He took a mouthful of water and spit it into the sink.

He didn't bother to check the bathroom mirror. Whatever was in there couldn't be good.

*****

There were a few more drinks after the first two. At some point he looked up and realized that half the party had moved into the bathroom. Somewhere at the back of his head, beneath the swirling fog of beer and whiskey that had moved in, he knew that was a place to avoid. There was Coca-Cola and Jack in the kitchen; he went there instead.

There was no ice, and the Jack didn't do much to cut the flat, sugary warmth of the Coke. He decided he should probably get some air before his stomach revolted on him.

He stumbled out onto the porch and tried to find the steps. Someone had dotted tea lights around the backyard and moths were fluttering around them. He got distracted by the multitude of wings fluttering in the light and his foot slipped out from under him.

He realized a second too late that he was falling, but he had enough presence of mind to tuck and roll. As he went down, his drink went up; he watched his drink arc out of the plastic cup and splatter onto the porch. He landed hard, skin scraping against the concrete, but he'd drunk enough to keep his nerves relatively anesthetized, and when he'd completed the final slide to the bottom of the steps, he rolled over onto his back and stared up at the hazy starry sky, thinking, _Huh_.

"Wow, don't drink and walk, right?" he heard someone say and then a guy with curly hair and kind eyes was leaning over him, looking concerned. "You alive?"

"I think so," he said. He looked around. There was a snowflake-shaped Jack puddle on the wooden slats of the porch. "I lost my drink."

" _Tragedy_ ,'' the guy said. "So, do you have a hematoma? You need to go to the emergency room?"

"Nah," he said. He blinked at the guy. "Why are you out here?"

"Hiding contraband," the guy said. "They had champagne in the fridge. I grabbed a bottle. I'm not sure I'm supposed to have it. My name's Jamal. What's yours?"

He told Jamal his name and let him help him up. His legs wobbled beneath him and Jamal grabbed onto his waist and led him onto the grass.

"I can't remember why I like this feeling," he said. "It always seems to let me down."

"Better to enjoy it while it lasts, then," Jamal said, and plucked a bottle out of the dark. "It's not good champagne. It's drugstore champagne. We're doing them a favor by drinking it." He handed over the bottle.

The bottle was already open. He took a swig. It tasted apple and rubbing alcohol and he'd tilted the bottle too far and too fast; sharp-edged bubbles flooded into his mouth and down his throat and up his nose. He gasped and thrust the bottle away, the excess splashing out over his chin. "Wow."

Jamal was laughing. "You look like you need a bib, for Christ's sake. Tonight just hasn't been your night, huh?"

He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. The champagne ran over his knuckles and hung from his fingertips, like alcoholic tears. He shook them off. "I've had worse nights."

Jamal considered the statement. He pulled a flask from his hip pocket, poured some of the contents into the champagne bottle and took a drink. "They all blend together for me."

*****

The thought of breakfast made him gag, but he managed to pull it together enough to go in the kitchen and start the coffee. His hands were shaking worse than before and he refused to think about why that could be. He managed to get a cup from the kitchen rack and take out the sugar. There was some milk in the fridge but it looked suspicious so he ignored it.

There was no reason he had to live like an animal, so he sloshed some coffee together with a little sugar and sat down at the kitchen table to drink it. It tasted bitter and didn't do much to settle his stomach or stop the shakes but he at least felt like he was approaching normal.

He heard a door open and footsteps down the hall. He looked up from his coffee cup just in time to see Jamal come into the kitchen, naked and confused. They looked at each other.

"Your clothes are on the floor in the bedroom," he said and took a sip.

Jamal blinked. He pointed at the table for emphasis and then turned around and went back down the hall.

He kept drinking his coffee. After a minute Jamal reappeared, slightly disheveled but clothed. He looked around the kitchen like he'd never seen it before.

"Want some coffee?" he asked.

Jamal rubbed his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Damned if I know."

"Oh," Jamal said. "Is there coffee?"

"Behind you. Cups are by the sink. There's milk in the fridge but I think it's gone bad."

"I'll leave it," Jamal said. He poured himself a cup and sank down at the table. He took a drink. He obviously didn't like it all that much, but he was polite and refrained from making a face.

"I can get you something else if you want," he said.

Jamal shrugged. "Want something to take the edge off?"

"What?"

Jamal dug around in his pocket and pulled a flask out. "Just a splash."

"I shouldn't."

"You mind if I do?" Jamal sloshed some amber liquid into his cup. It smelled of sugar and smoke. His mouth was watering.

"Oh, what the hell," he said and held his cup out. Jamal tipped the flask into it.

He took a long drink. It still tasted foul but the shakes almost immediately stopped. He chose to see it as coincidence.

"I can't remember how we got here," Jamal told him. He was smiling but it didn't quite fit.

He took another long drink. "I kind of do, I think. Sometimes I get lucky and it comes back to me. Sometimes I'm just glad it doesn't. You want some breakfast? I should have eggs and English muffins somewhere around."

"I don't know if I can eat."

"Give it a shot."

Jamal thought for a moment and then nodded. He got up and started looking for supplies.

"So is this your place?" Jamal asked.

"For now, yes."

"For now?"

He put the English muffins in the toaster and set about scrambling the eggs. "Always good to be prepared for the worst. I'm hoping I can hang onto this for a little while longer."

"Is it rent? Mortgage? Some other shit?"

He put the scrambled eggs on two plates and artfully arranged the muffins. He placed the plates on the table and picked up his cup. "Drunks have a tendency to lose things."

Jamal gave him a knowing smile. He picked up his own cup. "Cheers to holding on for another day, then?"

He clinked his cup with Jamal's. "Cheers."

The sun was coming in the window, beams playing on the floor. He was sitting at his kitchen table eating eggs and toast with a not-quite stranger, almost friend, and if he hoped really hard, it just might turn out to be a beautiful day.


End file.
